Velindre felt a measure of sympathy for the magebom of the mainland, most without any wizard nearby to guard and guide them through the first manifestations of their affinity, never mind the fearful rumours still perpetuated by the ignorance of the mundane populace. Then resentment put such feelings to flight. No, the Council of Wizards isn’t a cabal of astute and powerful mages secretly directing kings and princes down the paths of wisdom. Don’t you think the mainland might be less riven by faction and self-interest if that were the case? No, it’s a circle of self-satisfied men and women who struggle to look beyond the sea mists they use to hide Hadrumal, scrying spells notwithstanding.’
She took a still narrower lane cutting across her path and leading between high stone walls towards the long, curved high road that was the backbone of the modest city of Hadrumal. Behind her lay the warren of humbler buildings housing the craftsmen and tradesmen who supported the island’s mages in their studies. Reaching the high road, Velindre looked towards the fog-shrouded hills gently rising beyond the city, where the island’s yeomen raised their stock and tended their fields, the remote towers of the wizard halls a distant curiosity.
She could go and stay with her father’s brother. Let these apprentices who were so keen to study with her prove their worth by traipsing all that way every morning. Let Rafrid make a fool of himself trying to drag her back to the city. And her aunt and cousins wouldn’t give a Lescari penny piece for the gossip around the wizard city, any more than they had in those timeless summers she had spent on their farm as a child. There wouldn’t be whispering in corners and bright-eyed, hushed speculation as to just why it was that Archmage Planir had found her lacking and why the Council had handed the prize that should have been hers to Rafrid, of all people. No. That would be running away. Neither her father nor her mother would approve of that, always supposing they looked up from their books and parchments for long enough to notice her absence. As she walked along the flagstones, she glanced at the pale tower of Wellery’s Hall, its yellow stone a contrast to the grey sky. Over to the east, the squat stump of Atten Hall’s central tower was barely visible over the intervening roofs.
They would be expecting her to still be working towards a seat on the Council in her own right. They’d set that path before her ever since they’d first encouraged her adolescent fascination with her burgeoning affinity. Hadrumal needed to be guided by wizards with a sound understanding of the full potential of magic in the wider world. Then the clear-sighted leaders of this hidden isle could instruct the blinkered rulers of the mainland along better paths than the ones they inevitably chose for themselves. Velindre’s mouth quirked wryly. That remained to be seen. No matter. Her stride lengthened again, setting her cloak flapping, its azure silk lining bright as a summer sky. She passed the dark hollows of several gateways before turning into a courtyard with a fountain at its centre. The basin was dry and the statue at its centre invisible beneath a swaddling of straw and sacking. Was there no one in this hall with the time to spare for a charm to protect the stone from the frosts?
As Velindre passed the fountain, a stairwell door in the far wall opened and a slight woman emerged. She was almost as heavily muffled as the statue, with a mossy green scarf pulled right up to her vibrant chestnut eyes.
‘Ely.’ Velindre moved to intercept her.
The woman twitched her scarf down with a gloved hand to reveal a fine-boned face with wisps of black hair just visible around the edge of her knitted cap. ‘Whatever you want, keep it short.’
‘Rafrid’s just lectured me about my responsibilities to the apprentices.’ Velindre grimaced extravagantly. ‘You must know who Troanna would like to see given a leg up, or Kalion, perhaps?’
‘You still think it’s worth keeping in with them?’ Ely cocked her head to one side, birdlike. Naturally,’ said Velindre, unperturbed. ‘And Rafridcan go jump a rope if he doesn’t like it.’
‘I’ll see what I can find out.’ Ely shivered inside her cloak and her turquoise earrings trembled. Did Rafrid say anything else?’
Velindre shrugged. ‘About what?’
‘He’s one of the few who get to see our esteemed Archmage in private.’ Ely’s elegant, finely plucked brows disappeared beneath the ribbed welt of her hat. ‘Did he let slip anything about Planir’s mood? Any clue as to what might be going on behind that granite facade?’
Velindra shrugged again.
‘Oh well.’ Ely’s carefully painted mouth tightened with irritation—‘Have you seen Galen anywhere?’
‘I came here looking for him.’Velindre raised her pale golden brows at Ely. ‘You and he are keeping company again?’
‘He has his uses,’ Ely admitted with a sideways smile. ‘Especially when it’s this cold.’
‘More fun in your bed than a warming pan?’ Velindre wondered with faint amusement.
‘Sometimes,’ Ely said a trifle sourly. ‘Still, who knows, he might make Stone Master someday.’
‘Who knows,’ echoed Velindre. ‘I won’t keep you. Just send any likely apprentices my way’ Ely pulled her scarf up over her face again. ‘Keep your eyes and ears open for news of Planir, if you’re playing the dutiful underling to Rafrid.’ She clumped away across the empty courtyard in bulky sheepskin boots and vanished beneath the arch of the gateway. Velindre looked up at Galen’s windows. He had no more chance of becoming Stone Master than he had of becoming Archmage, even if Planir consented to relinquish the lesser of the two offices he held. Ely was deceiving herself if she thought she was going to enjoy any influence as Galen’s lover. She had better stick to seeking advancement through the gossip she garnered and supplied to Flood Mistress Troanna and Hearth Master Kalion. She certainly wasn’t going to win a Council seat on her own merits. Ely’s promise as an apprentice had never really come to much.
Velindre chuckled as she made her way from the courtyard. She hoped for Ely’s sake that Galen had learned more of a lover’s skills than he’d had when they had all been pupils together, in those days when anything had seemed possible. Her smile faded.
Hadrumal’s high road was largely deserted. A few carts trundled along the cobbles to deliver faggots of firewood or anonymous sacks and chests to the closed shop fronts of the tailors and cobblers, the bookbinders and ink-sellers. One wine seller had opened his shutters and profligate candles brightened the interior, soothing chilled apprentices cradling cups of mulled wine fragrant with herbs and spices. Velindre slowed as she caught the tempting scent of new bread, warm from the oven. Then she picked up her pace. She was hardly in the mood to swap pleasantries with neophyte mages half her age. Stepping across the runnel of muck and rain in the gutter, she crossed to the opposite flagway where mismatched shop fronts yielded to the ancient stonework that bounded the paradoxically named New Hall. Passing beneath the black shadow of a gatehouse with carvings long since weathered to obscurity, Velindre crossed a courtyard where hollows in the flagstones worn by countless generations of feet were dark with moisture. Reaching beneath her cloak, she drew out a keychain and unlocked the iron-studded door at the base of the central tower. Inside, a stair spiralled tightly upwards. Snapping her fingers, Velindre summoned a pale-blue flame to light her way up the dark stone stairs. She passed the door to the rooms on the first floor without slowing. At the door to her second-floor sanctuary, she paused, keys in hand, looking up the silent stair towards the empty rooms above. What would Otrick have said to her? It was becoming difficult to recall the exact sound of his voice. There were days when memory of his face was blurred in her mind’s eye.
She unlocked the door and walked into her study, flicking the pale flame into the fireplace where kindling laid ready instantly caught fire. Dust from the coal crackled. The brass catches and polished chestnut of the tall cupboards set on either side of the fireplace glowed as the flames grew stronger. The opposite wall was shelved from floor to ceiling on either side of a narrow door, books and parchments neatly ordered. A few curios inten-upted the array: a flute made from a bird’s hollow bone and a small glass case containing a precisely labelled collection of winged seeds dried to papery fragility. Propped here and there were studies of birds and precisely detailed seascapes, some in oils, others in chalk or ink. A single high-backed, leather-covered chair stood beside the fireplace while two uninviting, unpadded chairs flanked a wide table where leatherbound books ordered by size awaited her attention, inkstand and quills precisely arranged to hand. Velindre ignored the books in favour of the fresh, floury rolls and a slab of dense yellow cheese left by one of the hall’s maidservants. A substantial chunk of sweet bread thick with preserved plums had its own plate, flanked by a small flagon of red wine and a crystal jug of well water. What would Ely do if Galen offered to marry her? Velindre wondered idly as she tore open one of the rolls. Did she know he’d once had the folly to propose to Velindre? Was he still looking for something between a wife and a mother, who’d darn his socks and sew his buttons and tempt him with dainty meals, and certainly never threaten him with wizardly talents outstripping his own? Well, that hadn’t been the first dalliance Velindre had had sour with such rivalry, nor the last.